mr fucking talent

Sticky Poo

If you go into the loo
and out comes sticky poo
you must eat a bit more fiber
drink a lot less cider
you don't want a toxic flush
in an unpleasant rush
Mr tum tum
don't want scum scum
why don't you come come
play with me some some

la la laaaaa


yo

***From penetratee to a penetrator***

I am not at all interested in being anally penetrated myself, yet as a role reversal and a kind of power balancing act, I find the idea of screwing a man up the arse most tempting.
Why, is the question that might elude most people, but according to my always so level-headed observations, just as genius most of the time inhabits evil, and evil- genius, so does perversion reside within them.
Perversion.
I find this word to be used too literally and completely out of context.
Mostly by boring, ill-educated middle-class traditionalists.
People with narrow outlook on life and everything around them. Men with inability to expand on what has been “fed” to their feeble minds. People of blinding ignorance.
This word should, solely, be reserved for paedophiles and necrophilia's. Not for the modestly sexually deviant.
(But then again, who gives a fuck, sooo..yeh..)

When I was a teenager and still causing enormous amount of trouble in the backwoods of magically boring Finland, I had a vivid dream in which I was a proud owner of a penis.
I was holding it in my hand while it kept growing and growing until it smashed through the roof.
Right after this I had wild sex with the toilet seat and I'm sure this makes a great concept for dozen Freudian analyses but I am not going to dwell in that …….
(I think I woke up with an orgasm) hmmmmm…..
Anyhow, the point is, that after this fascinating dream I have wanted to find out what it really, in reality, feels like to have a penis.
(At least for one day.)
One of the greatest things about having one, other than the obvious envious ability to throw a leak standing up, is that you are able to put it in all sorts of exciting (and not so exciting) places.
Not nearly enough men take advantage of this marvellous possibility.
You can flop it out, anytime, pretty much anywhere. You can put it on your desk if you want to. You can shove it to places!!!!!!You can put it in a cup of jello or you can bubble-wrap it.
The options are immense.
Funnily enough, I have never actually experienced this kind of urge to penetrate anybody until I met the honourable Mr Muller. "Junco".
I wonder if the fact that he ponders around with his ass hanging out half the time has subconsciously imprinted my mind with the drive to stick something in it.
Might also be that the sort of innocence and contradiction that he has behind his “I don't give a shit”- façade is what makes me want to devour him completely and frankly - “do him like a bitch”.
I'm not also denying that the humorous occasion *( humorous for me) on my work roof earlier when whilst shaving his ass I decided to shove the whole shaver up his tiny cute butt hasn't influenced these fucked up desires. Of course it has.

Because it was FUN!!!!!

The honourable Mr Muller wasn't that pleased, but hey, first time is always awkward.
Let's be logical here. Men have a prostate gland that runs right up along the rectum. This prostate gland, sensation-nerve wise, is an extension of the penis. It's an inescapable physiological fact that men will find anal insertion/stimulation pleasurable.
There is no reason to deny pleasure to oneself, just because of the SUPPOSED homosexual implications.
There is a reason why fags are at it!!!!!
And the reason must not be feared!!!!!
Now that I have broken juncos butt-cherry, I am planning a proper poke around, invasion, implosion, raid, anal assault, rear foray, ferocious backdoor playtime.!!

Song for Junco:


I'm gonna slam into your crack
And your gonna scream like a little brat
There is no denying that
Your gonna love it just like a cat
with a bowl of cream
ah, what a luvly dream


Yeeeehh ……..so I'm nuts…… so what..yeeh


Fuck yeah!

****** star-fuckerrrrrr

I need to learn black magic so I can summon the spirit of Lane to sing for me before I fall asleep......
fuck...... but I never sleep enough....... ah, except sundays,... yeh, he could come around sundays..... I would make him
pancakes... Heli da pancake masta................ whatever what the fuck ..yeeeh....


Scary's on the wall
Scary's on his way

Watch where you spit
I'd advise you wait until it's over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better

And we die young
Faster we run

Down, down, down you're rollin'
Watch the blood float in the muddy sewer
Take another hit
And bury your brother

And we die young
Faster we run

Scary's on the wall
Scary's on his way

Another alley trip
Bullet seek the place to bend you over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better

Faster we run
And we die young

Genius dwells in chaos

words by some dude whose words are worth repeating........


"In Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."

-diversion en el metro-

A big black woman rubbed her even bigger tit against my hand this morning on the central line of the appraised London Underground.
Naturally I was annoyed, yet I decided not to be intimidated by this audacious rude fat dyke and took great pains not to move my hand
from the pole I was holding.
Trying to completely ignore the repetitive rubbing of a va va voom sized breast isn’t that easy though, and I started an internal mental battle with myself.
The thing is, even that I was so defiantly not being intimidated by this lardy lezzo,
she was most definitely having some scale of intergalactic orgasmic nipple masturbation for free on my expense.
This counts as commuter abuse.
My sexual services don’t come cheap to any man, or at all to women.
I mean, she hadn’t even bought me one tequila shot and she thought she could take advantage of me.
Disgrace.
Here she is, seven in the morning in the crowded underground, trying to get a tit wanking freebie.
Truly, an abominable disgrace.

Some sort of exotic fever of perversion has hit London women lately.
Perhaps the secret sect of masons that really rule England with their shadow government, have poisoned the Smirnoff Ice supply in order to see more girl on girl action.
In the past few months, more women have been making unruly advances on me than in the sum of all my previous years.
And two of them, guess where? The London Underground.
Modern day joint of debauchery and lechery.
Has being lesbian or bi become hip suddenly?
Or has it always been so?
Did the fact that I pierced my face instantly throw women into a frenzy?
I guess this kind of madness would be tolerable if it didn’t extend into ones friend network, which is exactly what happened, again,
last weekend when I was taking part in the festivities of george fourth in Brixton.
My jolly and beautiful irish friend Libby tried to convince me all night that it would be a great idea to kiss her.
With amusement I declined the honour and passed it on to my loco Spanish compadre Alberto. Coconut, as it is, respectfully.
Why? Because he has a cute face of that of a colour of coco, and he is small and mad like a nut.
Only logical. :)
Well perhaps this horny behaviour is one of the dangers of ecstasy.
(Not that I ever experienced it back in my pill popping years, all I did was completely loose my memory and sometimes hear a radiator speaking to me).
Maybe everybody is tripping on a new form of ecstacy and I remain ignorant to the fact, missing the boat of horny lunacy.
Maybe there is something to kissing girls and I am just turning into an old prude.

Back in the tube I decided to fight for all the innocent girls like myself that get harassed by women, and concluded that some sort of confrontation has to take place.
The big fat mama should be thrown into the other end on the power scale.
I raised my eyes and stared her right into hers with the fiercest defiance, imagining daggers piercing her retinas.
“ Having a good time there lady?" I asked.
Now I am still not sure if black people can blush ( perhaps mr.google can help me later in the matter), but whatever it was that made the embarrasement obvious, body language, blushing or something other, was of grand proportion.
The response was genuine. It was also that of a surprise and bafflement.
Clearly she had been half asleep or lost in thoughts, and after blurting out dozen excuses she retaliated back into staring the tube carriage floor.
(I sometimes wonder if other people see three dimensional land-scapes and figures on the blank surfaces or if this is another relic of my drug infused years).
She hasn’t, after all, been rubbing her nipple on me whilst in the throws of multi-layered pleasure waves.
Guess not everyones nipples are as extra-orgasmicly-receptive like mine.
Goddamn.
I kind of felt sorry for the fat “dyke”.




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